


viva la vida

by mapagkunwari



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras Lives, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, In which no one from the Les Amis is dead, Marius is only mentioned once and then never again, More comfort than angst I swear, Slow Burn, Éponine Thénardier Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapagkunwari/pseuds/mapagkunwari
Summary: He doesn't turn to look back at her. The dusk bathes him in an orange glow, and suddenly the man of marble is nothing but a boy with a dying fire.
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**I**.  
 _was a long and dark december  
_ _from the rooftops i remember  
_ _there was snow, white snow_

* * *

Enjolras' mother bursts in to tears the moment he walks through the front door. "You've gotten so thin," she weeps, stroking his cheek. "And these bruises—what have they done to you? What have they done to my son?"

His father, on the other hand, is less welcoming. The man of the household merely sees Enjolras in before retreating back in to his study, slamming the door behind him. He has never made a secret of his distaste, and Enjolras doesn't hold him against it. 

Once Enjolras' mother has doted on him significantly, the maids insist on bathing him. He sends them on their way—insisting that he's no longer a child—before locking himself in his all-too familiar bathroom. As the lukewarm water washes away the dirt and grime built up from the couple of days he'd spent jailed, Enjolras remembers how opulent it all is. The lavender soap, the ornamental plants, the abstract paintings his mother took pride in. 

He hadn't forgotten how much he loathed it. 

He showers quickly before changing in to an outfit one of the maids had set out. Without meaning to, he catches sight of his reflection in his closet mirror. As much as he wanted to believe that he wasn't much different than the last time he'd been home, he knows it's not true—there was a tiredness to him now. It stretched beyond the signs of abuse from prison guards and the obvious toll months of revolting had taken on his weight.

Defeated. _That's the word,_ Enjolras thinks with a sneer as he turns away from the looking glass. There was nothing there to see but the reflection of of a failed rebellion. 

* * *

"What brings you here?" 

"It's hard to find honest work nowadays," Éponine answers the Head house-maid, Lady Dubois.

The latter nods solemnly. "With the uprising in Paris..." she says in a low voice. 

Éponine is able to hide her flinch, disguising it with a curt laugh. "Nasty business," she agrees quietly. Any indication of involvement would severely wound her chances at employment, and she couldn't afford another rejection at this point. 

As they round the corner, Lady Dubois comes to a halt. "Master Enjolras," she greets, and Éponine starts in surprise. 

She had only ever seen Enjolras at the head of the table of Musain's back room and rarely anywhere else. She had heard, of course, that he was the son of rich blood; but she hadn't expected him to be _here_ , among the wicker furniture and wooden beams of the Montpellier mansion. 

Éponine had only heard rumors of what happened to the boys of the Les Amis de l'ABC. How they'd been thrown in to separate prisons and abused both physically and mentally. There had been bail for those who could pay, and she briefly wondered how much it would have taken to get the leader free. _Must have cost them thousands,_ she thought as she sized him and his ill-fitting clothes up. _Millions, even, for all the trouble he's caused._

"Lady Dubois," Enjolras responds stiffly before turning his gaze to Éponine. If he's surprised to see her, he doesn't show it. 

"She is an applicant for the household, monsieur," Lady Dubois says courteously before shooting Éponine a sharp look. 

The younger girl folds in to a clumsy curtsy. "Monsieur," she mumbles. She keeps her head down, praying a silent prayer that Enjolras lets her through. 

He could say one word to Lady Dubois and she wouldn't be taken in. He could make it so that no household in Montpellier ever looked her way, even. 

"Very well." is all Enjolras says before brusquely walking past them. 

Éponine exhales, relieved.

"Takes your breath away, doesn't he?" Lady Dubois teases, misinterpreting Éponine's flushed expression.

She smiles abashedly and realizes it's a far easier explanation for her speechlessness.

"He's attractive," she says breathlessly for added effect, bringing an affectionate laugh out of Lady Dubois. 

"Watch out, though," the older woman warns, glancing over her shoulder to watch Enjolras' retreating back. "I've cared for him since he was a wee lad, and I don't suppose there's much of a beating heart in there for anything besides his cause." 

* * *

Without meaning to, Enjolras tunes in to Lady Dubois' morning reports to his mother. It had been around two weeks since she'd taken on Éponine and by the sound of it, the street gamine wasn't good for anything: she couldn't cook to save her life and didn't know how to work around the household. 

"She was so charming," Lady Dubois sighs on one particular morning. "I didn't know she'd be so... incompetent."

A muscle ticks in Enjolras's jaw, though it's hidden by the newspaper he's reading. Truth be told, he had stood by that corner even before he saw her; he was on his way to their library when he was stopped dead in his tracks by the familiar voice, the familiar laugh. 

He'd heard that raspy voice before. It used to sweep the corners of the Musain, call for Marius from below the window. He'd even heard that laugh; it bounced off the streets as it raced after Gavroche, echoed in every room as it responded to Grantaire's terrible jokes. 

He knew the sounds but hadn't quite remembered the face that came with it until she was there in front of him with Lady Dubois. In the flesh and no longer a ghost of yesterday.

In that moment, he had been tempted to speak out against her employment, but her words had echoed in his head. _I_ _t's hard to find honest work nowadays._ And then he saw her, the sharpness of her—more bones than actual skin—and he couldn't find it within him to be petty.

The past was bound to catch up with him. He just hadn't expected it to be in the form of _her._

"Fire her, then," Madame Enjolras says dismissively as she picked at her custard tart. 

Without meaning to, Enjolras interjects. "Make her a still room maid," he says, not even bother enough to look up from what he's reading. "Let her be the one that gets sent out to the marketplace." 

It's such an abrupt suggestion that both Lady Dubois and Madame Enjolras are struck dumb for a moment. He feels their eyes on them and immediately regrets speaking up. 

"You know her?" Madame Enjolras asks incredulously. 

Enjolras can already feel where his mother wants to veer the topic to—can already sense that the woman is considering calling in Éponine herself—so Enjolras puts on the most nonchalant front he can manage before answering. 

"Knew of her," he says briefly.

It's not a lie. He has no relations to the shadow.

He flips to another page. 

Madame Enjolras purses her lips, unconvinced, but grants her son the benefit of doubt nonetheless. She instead dismisses Lady Dubois, who curtsies respectfully before leaving the room to mother and son.

Had it been a few years prior, the two would be talking animatedly. Enjolras had always found it easier to converse with his mother than his father and he had snatched up the little moments he could talk freely with her; be it about her line of work or Enjolras's education, or how boring the latest party they'd been required to go to was.

Times have changed, though. Enjolras feels her curious glare and he responds by refusing to glance her way. 

Madame Enjolras leaves Enjolras to himself after a few moments. Her custard tart remains on her plate, only half-eaten. 

Enjolras wonders if it's no longer her favorite. 

* * *

**II.** _  
clearly i remember  
from the windows they were watching  
while we froze down below_

* * *

Truth be told, Éponine had thought she was going to be sacked. She'd botched being a kitchen maid and a laundry maid and a parlour maid in a span of two weeks; she's ready to hit the streets once more when Lady Dubois gives her one last chance.

"The still room is where we keep supplies of most everything," Lady Dubois explains. She gestures around the small room, and Éponine takes it all in: alcohol, cosmetics, medicine and ingredients.

"Your job is to deliver when asked, and to also take trips to the marketplace."

The mention of a marketplace perks Éponine up. "You are not to buy anything for yourself out of the money we provide for shopping," Lady Dubois warns, seemingly sensing Éponine's sudden excitement. "If you wish to make a personal purchase, it is to come out of your pay. Compris?"

"Oui, oui," Éponine says, bobbing her head up and down. She flashes the Head house-maid a toothy grin. "When do I start?"

She's sent out that afternoon with one of the older between maids, and Lady Dubois is pleasantly surprised when they come back with everything she'd asked for but so much more change.

"Oh, that girl is a racket, she is!" the between maid gushes when Lady Dubois pulls her aside to ask them about their expedition. "You should've seen her this afternoon, Dubois. She just haggled her way through all the vendors. Why, if I didn't know her, I'd think she was a con!"

Lady Dubois cackles along with the between maid, secretly pleased that the young girl she'd come to like isn't as hopeless as she'd initially judged.

In the back of her mind, she is nagged by how the young Enjolras knew Éponine would be so good at the task. Lady Dubois pushes the thought away and dismisses it as intuition.

* * *

It's mid-summer in August—a full month since Éponine's employment in the household—when the two run in to each other again. Enjolras briefly wonders why he hadn't happened on her sooner, but he figures that it's because he's always locked away in his room while Éponine is out and about with her work.

He's temporarily thrown by the changes in her appearance. Her dark mane of hair is more kept, and the once impoverished state of her has been smoothed out by three meals a day. She curtsies with much more grace and carries herself better, taller. 

"Master Enjolras," she greets, and Enjolras notes that even the roughness in her voice has mellowed out.

"Abandon the 'master'," Enjolras exhales. He finds it uncomfortable, coming from her. "Around the other maids, since you must. But when they aren't around, 'monsieur' or even just Enjolras will do."

"Monsieur Enjolras," she grants him, saying it slowly as if she were testing out the feel of his name on her tongue. 

Enjolras nods appreciatively before making a move to walk past her. 

"Wait!" Éponine cries, and he freezes at the sound of it. 

She instantly looks ashamed to have called out for him so suddenly. "I wanted to thank you," she says quickly, her words practically tripping over each other. "Lady Dubois told me it was your suggestion, to put me in the still room, and I like to think I'm doing well there, and if you hadn't I might be—"

"There's no need to thank me," Enjolras interrupts, feeling rather awkward to be subjected to so much appreciation. "Are you enjoying your work here?" 

Éponine nods enthusiastically. "Everyone is so kind," she answers. "And it's comfortable, too, our quarters and our meals..." She pauses to chuckle. "I suppose anything's better than the streets."

It's such a small comment but it drags Enjolras under. He knew of the streets she was talking about; they were the very people he had hoped to serve.

He remembers the days leading up to La Marque's death. He remembers the rallies they held and the populace they'd appealed to; he remembers the night before the funeral, and how Inspector Javert barged in the Café Musain with several guardsmen.

The Les Amis were outnumbered on their own turf. The Les Amis were all taken, the smallest of graces being that all of them were alive. The rebellion died that night.

It was not even giving a fighting chance. 

"Monsieur?" 

The sound of Éponine's voice jolts him back to the present. There is only a flicker of guilt on her expression; more of it is curiosity. He shakes his head and tries to will away the ghosts that haunt him. "I'm glad to hear that. Be on your way," he commands. 

It's obvious that she wants to resist—wants to ask him about his silence—but he damn near begs her with his eyes to hold her peace. Thankfully, she does; she lingers in a curtsy before taking her leave. 

Enjolras stands in the widest hallway of his home but still feels as though he's suffocating. 

* * *

"Take me with you."

Éponine raises an eyebrow and adjusts the basket on her arm. "I don't think I'm allowed to," she admits.

Enjolras, who is standing between her and the front door, mimics her expression.

"Who are you worried you'll get in to trouble with?" he asks, exasperated.

There's a tinge of amusement to his voice and Éponine hates to admit that it softens her resolve. "I haven't left the house since I got here." he adds. "I'm bored out of my mind."

"I'm shopping for fish today." Éponine warns, but Enjolras is already pulling on his coat.

The two don't feel the need to fill the fifteen minute walk with small talk so they fall in to a comfortable lull of quiet. Éponine takes the opportunity to steal glances at Enjolras, trying to discern the revolution from the boy. She had only hung around the Les Amis for the sake of Marius, and instead ended up stuck with _this one._ The man of marble.

"Is there something on my face?" he asks, annoyed, once they reach the mouth of the market.

Éponine chuckles to herself. "A little dirt right there." she teases before ducking in to the throng of people, weaving through the masses of buyers.

Enjolras finds her moments later as she's negotiating over some herring. "There wasn't any dirt." he grumbles, still glancing at his reflection to prove her wrong. She throws her head back with laughter.

Éponine doesn't entirely appreciate the company. Having to make sure that Enjolras was beside or behind her every few minutes slows her considerably. Though she wants to be impatient, she finds it hard to snap at Enjolras with the obvious effect being out of the house has on him.

How ironic _,_ Éponine muses, that the most crowded of places is where Enjolras can finally breathe.

After charming the vegetable vendor in to giving her some of his spare spices, the two head home. Enjolras; ever the gentleman; insists on carrying the baskets of produce. "You're better at shopping than I took you for." he comments as he sifts through what she'd bought.

"A thing or two you learn off the streets." she says, only to promptly regret it. A darkness seeps back in to Enjolras' eyes and the two walk on, the air heavy.

Enjolras only breaks the silence when the house comes in to view.

"Where were you then?"

Éponine falters. Enjolras stops, too, a few paces ahead of her. He doesn't turn to look back at her. The dusk bathes him in an orange glow, and suddenly the man of marble is nothing but a boy with a dying fire.

"Where were you," he repeats. "On the night that the guards came?"

It's the first time he's brought up the unsuccessful June rebellion. Éponine, not wanting to break whatever spirit he has left, tries her best to be honest.

"I was right outside." she says wistfully. "I was out on the street, waiting for Marius because we were supposed to deliver a letter to Cosette. I saw the guards before they saw me. I suppose it was instinct, but — I ran. I could have warned you, or maybe I couldn't have, but all I know is that I ran. And I hid. And I listened on where I could on what they'd done to you lot, where they'd put you, when you'd be out..."

She trails off, watching Enjolras shift ever so slightly. He gives the smallest of nods and begins to walk again. Éponine half-jogs to fall in to step with him only to catch his haunted expression; the dream-like state he always went under when he remembered.

When they get to the house, he hands her the basket back. "Go on. Lady Dubois might be wondering what took you so long," he says, expressionless. 

Éponine is about to do as she's told when, in a quiet voice, Enjolras says as though in afterthought: "You couldn't have?" 

"Pardon, monsieur?" 

"Warned us. You couldn't have warned us." 

His gaze is trained to the floor, one side of his lips tugging upwards in a half-smile. 

"Wash our blood of your hands, chérie," he chuckles. (Though Éponine knows the term of endearment means nothing to Enjolras, her heart leaps regardless.) "Only one of us should bear the guilt of that night, and it certainly shouldn't be you." 

* * *

**III.**

_when the future's architecture_   
_by a carnival of idiots on show_   
_you'd better lie low_

* * *

The wooden chair flies past Enjolras, narrowly missing his face by inches.

It crashes in to the wall and splinters; the pieces fly apart and smash in to his back, and it's only then that he flinches. The resounding crash sounds too much like a gun shot. His father mistakes his wince for guilt and preys on him for it.

"You will not talk of King Louis-Philippe the way that you did earlier under this roof, under any circumstance. Do you understand?" his father seethes.

Enjolras doesn't answer.

Dinner had started out as a quiet ordeal, with neighbors over for the first time in months. Enjolras's parents succeeded in veering the topic away from politics as much as possible until dessert was served, and the Prevosts had to deliver the pièce de résistance of their own by asking Enjolras on his opinion on the monarchy.

Needless to say, they got more than they bargained for.

"I don't remember raising a son that was mute." Enjolras's father prompts.

Enjolras dryly responds, "Funny, because I don't recall you raising me at all."

The comment is an off-hand one, but it garners another object thrown at him. Enjolras's father had always been a violent man behind closed doors; somehow, his son inherited the trait, albeit the latter was better at suppressing it.

The second object is a wooden table clock and, this time, it hits the younger Enjolras square in the shoulder. He reels back from the force and involuntarily hisses in pain.

"I did not spend good money to get a disrespectful child out of jail," Monsieur Enjolras announces. "You will either heed by my wishes or I will throw you out to the streets to rot. If it weren't for your mother, you ungrateful little—"

"No need to launch in to the whole tirade, father. We're a bit too old for that, aren't we?" Enjolras says hollowly.

The pain is beginning to stretch to his arm, and though he tempted to get some support from the nearby table, Enjolras stands as straight as he can manage.

"The Prevosts addressed me directly. You would have called me disrespectful nonetheless if I had not responded."

Monsieur Enjolras bears his teeth, the vein in his neck throbbing far too much for comfort. As much as Enjolras disliked his father, he didn't want to be the reason for the man's heart attack.

"I'll keep myself in check." Enjolras says scornfully, just to end the whole thing.

His father, in turn, collapses tiredly in to his chair and turns away from Enjolras. Anger took a lot out of the man.

There's no command to leave or utterance of excusing oneself. Enjolras walks right out of the study, leaving the wreckage of their relationship to be cleaned up by someone else later on. 

* * *

When the nursemaid had asked Éponine if she was 'sick to the stomach at the sight of blood', Éponine hadn't thought much of it; not until the nursemaid asked for fresh bandages to be delivered specifically to a room instead of to their quarters. With poorly concealed surprise, Éponine had to stand over and watch the nursemaid try to tend to Enjolras's shoulder.

A nasty scrape spread across Enjolras's pale skin, blossoming and discoloring to provide an almost ghastly sight. The nursemaid doesn't let on, but by the way her fingers tremble and the manner of which she holds her breath, Éponine figures that the young girl is faint-hearted in the face of the injury.

"If Master Enjolras will permit," Éponine says courteously. "I would finish dressing his wound."

"Please." Enjolras grunts, looking relieved that Éponine was offering.

The nursemaid apologizes profusely before curtsying hastily. On her way out, she shoots Éponine an appreciative look. Éponine sets down her materials once the nursemaid is gone before leaning closer to inspect the bruise.

"What happened to you?" she wonders aloud, daring to run her fingers over the dried blood on his bandage.

Enjolras grimaces ever so slightly. "Another rebellion I'll never win." he responds, managing to sound cynical and nostalgic in one breath.

Éponine doesn't press any further.

She knows a bit about bandages and injuries. _Father would force Azelma and I to hurt ourselves, to look more pitiful,_ Éponine wants to tell Enjolras as she gently changes the bandages. _Afterwards, we would try and heal each other to the best of our abilities. We had none of these fancy medicines or clean bandages. Just cloth and rusty water._

She doesn't say a thing, though, because her presence always seems to unearth another memory from the barricade that never was. Hearing about her plight would only probably remind him of the people he was desperate to fight for, the ones he was willing to flood the streets for.

"There," she breathes, taking a step back to admire her handiwork.

"You're much more... _precise_ than the nursemaid." he compliments, stretching his good shoulder.

A lopsided smile breaks out on Éponine's face.

"Thank you." they say at the same time.

"That will be all." he says before Éponine can say anything else.

Éponine curtsies and gathers her things, only to be called back when she's halfway out the door.

"You should be the one to tend to this until it heals. The nursemaid doesn't seem to enjoy this task."

"Yes, Master Enjolras."

Enjolras's eyebrows furrow.

"It's a request," he mutters. "Not a command."

* * *

Autumn creeps in slowly, then all at once. What warmth that the August summer had promised fades in to the mild October sun, bathing provincial France in velvet sunshine and rotting leaves.

Enjolras had never been one to stop and smell the roses; he had always ever thought himself to be a man of singular ambition, and that was to overthrow the obstacle. Still, now, away from the war zone, Enjolras is somewhat obliged to admire life beyond his cause.

Éponine, without meaning to, helps him.

It begins with the market place trips. When he catches her, he accompanies her, and she shows him how to haggle, the little tips and tricks on one-upping the vendors. She admires the gaudy jewelry and revels in the fresh produce. She drags him along, and he finds himself cajoling merchants and peddlers to the point that they are practically throwing free trinkets at his feet. 

_It's your damned looks_ , Éponine would chide, the ghost of a grin splayed on her lips. _You are too charming for your own good._

He talks to her about politics. She tells him of how living on the streets look like. They share bits and pieces of themselves to each other, never daring to go as far as to talk about the revolution.

As the weeks go by and their trips become more frequent, they walk slower on their way home because she says she likes the way the leaves look; on one particular trip, she forces him to stay by her side for a good amount of time and watch the wind pull away the decaying leaves of a tree.

"This is quite depressing." Enjolras says restlessly, unable to see what fascinates Éponine so much.

"Really?" she hums. She takes no offense but instead cocks her head to one side to look up at him curiously. "I think it moves like a painting."

"Painting's don't _move._ "

"You're missing the point," Éponine says laughingly, bitingly. She gestures around them. "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

"Everything is dying." Enjolras deadpans. In the back of his head, he can hear the Les Amis. 

_Why must you take art so literally_ , Jehan would most probably ask indignantly. _What fine marble,_ Grantaire would have jeered. _I think I'm getting allergies_ , Joly might have complained.

Enjolras starts when he feels Éponine's fingers on his wrist. "You're doing it again." she says softly.

Enjolras shakes his head to clear his thoughts, knowing what she means by 'it'; she had pointed out once before, delicately, that every now and then something would bring Enjolras back to June. He had asked her to ground him every time she caught him in his one of his moods.

It had been an ironic request at first, but when Éponine began to point out every time he did it, Enjolras began to see that it wasn't an occasional thing. It happened often and it was triggered by the most random of things. It was as if Enjolras lived with one foot in the present, and the other was stuck in quicksand-like material of the past. Every move in the present just had him sinking deeper.

"Sorry." he sighs.

Éponine pulls away and the skin where she pressed her fingers feels like it's burning.

In an attempt to distract himself, he turns back to the tree. "It's beautiful." he says stiffly.

Éponine chuckles. "You don't have to lie, monsieur."

He glances down at her a for a moment and watches _her._ The autumn wind blows the leaves in all their gold glory in their direction. They stick in her air and brush past her face and yet she stands, uncharacteristically serene, paying attention to nothing but the dying tree.

Enjolras tears his gaze away.

"It's beautiful." he repeats. This time, he means it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quietly, he begins to weep, and all his marble breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> college got in the way of writing T0T but here's the rest :)

**I.**  
 _was a long and dark december  
_ _when the banks became cathedrals  
_ _and a fox became God_

* * *

The maids think it's peculiar but it's not their place to ask. They talk about it in whispers instead: Master Enjolras has taken to the new still maid. They are with each other often, out at the market place or the gardens or the library. He calls for her often. Though still maid is her title, she is regarded a little higher; she is, after all, the only one the young Enjolras seems to seek out constantly.

Lady Dubois, no longer able to contain her curiosity, decides to ask one October evening. She is in the pantry with Éponine, sorting through their products, when she asks as innocently as she can: "Had you known Master Enjolras prior to your employment?"

Éponine, who is turning bread over in her hands to see if there's molding, pauses and looks thoughtful. "No," she says after a moment. "I did not know him at all."

The answer underwhelms Lady Dubois. How else would the master open up so suddenly to a stranger?

"And now that you do? What do you think of him?" she presses. 

There's another pause. Lady Dubois, whose back had been turned to Éponine, turns to look over her shoulder to catch the smallest of smiles on the younger girl's face right as she attempts to mask it.

"He is not anything you would expect." Éponine answers, and Lady Dubois grins a little herself.

* * *

"Where is your brother?"

Éponine looks up at Enjolras with mild surprise. The two are out on the garden, splayed underneath the last days of heat before winter rolls in. Enjolras is pulling at the grass while Éponine is making a chain of the common daisies.

"Gavroche?"

"He is your brother, correct?"

Éponine lets out a snort, setting aside her daisy chain to start on a new one. "He is back home in Paris." she tells him. "I couldn't bring him with me. I send him part of my pay every month—he knows to come collect on the same day, at the same place."

"And your parents?"

The question turns Éponine's expression to stone. "Dead, hopefully." she says under her breath.

She only half means it, but Enjolras is jolted nonetheless. They teeter in awkward silence before Enjolras falls backward on to the grass, raising an arm to shield his eyes from the noonday sun. It is so uncharacteristically calm of him that Éponine shoots him an amused, affectionate expression. 

Enjolras lazily adjusts his arm so that his expression isn't visible. It's when he speaks that Éponine realizes why.

"The nights leading up to the death of La Marque," he begins slowly. "I had nightmares."

Éponine pauses from her menial task to try and comprehend what Enjolras is saying. It's only the second time he's brought up the revolution, and she can feel him tensing already.

"What kind of nightmares?" she asks as calmly as she can. Her fingertips quiver as she goes about linking the flowers, waiting for Enjolras to respond. 

"Red." he answers simply. "The streets flooded with blood and death. All my friends gone except me."

"Are you glad it never happened?"

The question is past Éponine's lips before she can think about it. Instantly, the air begins to feel like ice, but Éponine refuses to regret. To apologize. As Enjolras sits up to brush the grass from his knees, nothing on his expression gives away what he might answer. 

It is only Éponine's resolve that prevents her from taking back what she'd asked; her stubbornness that remains hopeful that he will say yes.

"I am glad that none of my friends are dead," he seems to decide. 

When he turns to look at Éponine, the sadness in his eyes makes the breath in her throat hitch. 

"But if I had to—if I knew it would only be at the cost of my own life—" 

"Don't," Éponine says sternly, not even wanting to entertain the hypothetical thought of it. "Don't you _dare._ " 

Enjolras's lips purse in to a thin line and he merely shrugs in response. 

A few minutes pass in silence. Though she knows there's nothing that can undo the damage that's been done, Éponine absently plops the daisy chain she'd been working on atop Enjolras's head. The confused and disgruntled look on his face—juxtaposed with the innocent flower crown—makes her chuckle. 

"Merde," he swears, shaking the chain out of his hair.

He turns it over in his hands and tries to feign annoyance, but he breaks in to a smile as Éponine fails to contain her giggles. Eventually, the two find themselves in hysterics. 

"What are we even _laughing_ about?" 

"Everything!"

"That doesn't make sense!"

"Does it have to?" 

In between his chuckles, Enjolras falls back on to the grass. He appears breathless from all the laughter; once again, he covers his eyes with his arm, but there's no mistaking the brightness of his smile. 

Mindlessly, Éponine lies beside him. Enjolras doesn't move.

"I almost forgot what this feels like," he says. 

"This?" 

"To be alive." 

The gratitude in his voice makes Éponine's heart swell. As much as she wants to let the feeling linger, though, the tone had already shifted far too much for her to completely take him seriously. 

"Were you anything else but?" she jokes, propping herself up on one elbow to look at Enjolras. She puts on an expression of exaggerated fear. "Don't tell me I've been talking to a ghost all this time. Or a statue? Is that why they call you the—" 

Without warning, Enjolras tosses a handful of grass in Éponine's face. It hits her squarely in the mouth, sending her in to a coughing fit. 

"Va te faire enculer," he curses coolly. 

"Oh, it's _on_ ," Éponine shrieks, retaliating by grabbing a fistful of grass and mussing it in to his hair. 

Their laughter echoes so loudly that everyone in the household hears. 

* * *

They are at the cusp of winter when he caves. 

Monsieur Enjolras grumbles complaints yet does nothing. Madame Enjolras attempts, only to come out in tears. The maids steer clear but gossip about it over their work; they wonder what triggered it. It has been a while, after all, since he's been like this.

Lady Dubois shakes Éponine awake. "I'm sorry to wake you. I know you're tired from a long day's work," the woman tersely tells a groggy Éponine. "But you are the only one in the house that I think may make a difference."

Éponine follows the loud sounds, and they lead her to his room. She sweeps her lamp around the hallway and the maids who had been standing watch scuttle away like street rats. The otherwise calm evening is ripped apart by the crashes coming from his locked quarters; every now and then, the walls shake from the force. 

Éponine steels her nerves and raps on the door. No one responds from the inside. "Monsieur?" she calls out, knocking once more. "It's me."

The sound of Enjolras's muffled voice comes from the inside. "Please leave." he says, eerily calm.

Despite herself, Éponine rolls her eyes. She sits on the floor and leans her back against Enjolras's door. "I didn't think dealing with the tantrums of bourgeois boys was part of my job," she taunts. 

It's only the tip of the iceberg of her prepared cutthroat, but it's enough; the doors swing open and Éponine gets to her feet to face him.

He has no tears. Instead, his eyes are wild. There is no passion, just pure rage. He towers over her with his jaw clenched, and Éponine recoils without meaning to. She had seen this brand of anger before; had stared murderous rage like his in her own father.

Enjolras notices. Enjolras realizes.

He runs his hands over his face. He doesn't apologize, thankfully. Instead, he stalks back in to his room, leaving the door wide open. An invitation. Éponine doesn't take him up on it just yet; from the hallway, she does damage control.

Torn books are strewn across the floor. Some furniture have splintered. One part of the wall seems to have been punched repeatedly; there's a hole the size of a fist fragmenting the wood and the wallpaper, letting in the December chill.

Cautiously, Éponine steps in to the room. She walks around the wreckage and moves to Enjolras's side. She casts the light down on him and he squints up at her, managing to look irritated in spite it all. "I've seen worse." she says cheekily, and her answer seems to shock him sufficiently.

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of him. Éponine takes his as her cue to sit next to him, setting the lamp between them as Enjolras's chuckles die down.

"There was a rat."

"That's an awful lot of missed attempts to get a rat."

"Merde, Éponine." 

Éponine, in turn, flashes him a smile. "Just trying to lighten the mood," she says, and some of the tenseness in Enjolras's body gives way.

"There was a rat, in the revolution," Enjolras mumbles bitterly. Surprised, Éponine turns to him. 

The sadness outweighs his resentment, it seems, as he refuses to meet Éponine's eyes. "How else could Javert have known? Someone from the Les Amis told and it's driving me mad, guessing which of the boys it could be. Grantaire? Marius?"

"You shouldn't do that to yourself. Or them." Éponine jumps in at the mention of Marius's name.

Enjolras shakes his head, visibly incredulous at her defensiveness over the boy, but he lets it pass.

"We were supposed to win." he says wretchedly. "Even if we weren't, we were supposed to at least _try._ "

Enjolras does not tear up. Instead, he lashes out, taking hold of the nearest discarded book and hurling it across the room. The scream comes out of him right after. He balls his hands in to fists and begins to slam his knuckles against the floor, each punch coupled with a howl of frustration.

Helpless, Éponine reaches out to put an arm over Enjolras's shoulders and attempts to hold him down. "Enjolras. _Enjolras,_ " she says desperately over each wail and each slam. "Enjolras, it's _over._ "

The three words seem to take out the fight in him; she repeats them over and over, as much as she hates to, until he's calmed down. He slus in to her, exhausted, and Éponine slowly pulls away to hold his wrists in her hands. She waits until he is looking her in the eyes.

Defeated. There is no other way to describe him.

"Enjolras," she says softly. "It's over."

Quietly, he begins to weep, and all his marble breaks.

* * *

**II.**   
_i don't want to be a soldier_   
_who the captain of a sinking ship_   
_would stow, far below_   
_so if you love me, why'd you let me go?_

* * *

While Enjolras is typically adept at keeping his composure, he is obviously bothered by Éponine being firsthand witness to his outburst. 

In all of Lady Dubois' years working in the household, it had been the first time that anyone had gotten to Enjolras amid his hissy fit. Some of the older maids yapped that he had even _sobbed_. "Impossible," Lady Dubois huffed, silencing them immediately. "Why, I don't even think he cried as a baby—I was there!" 

Regardless, she's forced to reassign Éponine to a few different responsibilities as per Madame Enjolras's gentle prodding. "He stiffens every time she walks in to the room," she'd confided in Lady Dubois one morning that Enjolras had decided to sleep in. "I have no idea why Enjolras is so affected by her—but he is. Perhaps we can give her tasks that keeps her away from him, in the mean time..." 

As Lady Dubois tries to lie about the rationale of her reassignment, Éponine merely smiles. 

"It's quite alright, mademoiselle," she says peacefully, pausing from her brewing. "I'm aware why this is necessary." 

Lady Dubois heaves out a sigh of relief. "Good. It was getting hard to think of a good excuse." 

The two share a chuckle. "I just want to be clear, however..." Éponine trails off, visibly on edge. "This isn't—I'm not being sacked, am I?"

"Heavens, child. Of course not!" Lady Dubois assures. "I'd dare say you're the best thing that's happened to this house's still room since I was a still room maid myself!"

Much of the nervousness in Éponine's expression disappears as she laughs. "It's winter soon," she confides. "And I've got a brother and a sister, back in Paris. The pay I have here provides for them. I just need to make sure they're fed and warm, especially in times like these."

Lady Dubois nods sympathetically. She was all too familiar with the feeling of being a family's breadwinner. 

"It's a shame that Master Enjolras has let his outburst rattle him," she comments, glancing around to see if anyone else is within earshot. "You were so good for him. We all thought so." 

Éponine looks shocked.

"Has it really never occurred to you?" Lady Dubois asks. "I don't suppose I've ever seen him act his age until you came around." 

Éponine regards Lady Dubois thoughtfully before her expression softens. "I know where he's coming from," is all the younger girl says as she shifts her gaze to somewhere outside the window. 

It takes Lady Dubois aback, how different and similar Enjolras and Éponine are in more ways than one. Watching her now, it makes sense why he'd taken such a liking to her; they were both so pensive without ever being passive, both always careful without losing heart. 

"It's snowing," Éponine says factually, a bit of worry lurking in her tone.

Lady Dubois looks out the window as well and catches sight of what Éponine had been watching: Enjolras, severely under dressed for the weather, staring blankly up at the sky as the snow fell. 

"That it is," Lady Dubois replies. 

She grabs her coat and an umbrella before nodding to Éponine, silently indicating that their conversation has come to an end. Éponine mouths a 'thank you' before going back to her rose water, and Lady Dubois stalks out of the house to bring Enjolras back in from the cold. 

* * *

It takes Enjolras a full week to realize that Éponine is not, in fact, avoiding him. 

When Éponine disappeared from her usual posts, Enjolras first took it as a sign that she'd been scared off by his rage. He knew he had the capacity to be awful if he wanted to, and it embarrassed him that Éponine had to bear firsthand witness to it. Not everyone from the Les Amis had. Courfeyrac and Comebeferre had, once; Grantaire, too. All three men had cowered from Enjolras then. 

Éponine hadn't. It was both terrifying and amazing to Enjolras, that she could still serve him his tea with a straight face. 

It occurred to him, eventually, that she had withdrawn from her typical responsibilities as per some higher power. He figured that it was his mother; she would dismiss anything about the still room and passed on duties involving direct contact with Enjolras to any other junior maid. 

(Some part of Enjolras was irked that Éponine wasn't reaching out.)

He simmered in his pride and sulked in her absence until Lady Dubois knocked on his door one morning to deliver him fresh towels.

"We'll be one person short of staff starting this afternoon," she says innocently as she organizes his closet. 

There's no need to mention any names. Lady Dubois wouldn't have relayed this information to him if it were anyone else. 

Enjolras does a poor job at tucking away his concern. "Why so?" he asks, flipping the page of his novel a little too forcefully for comfort. 

"It's not my position to tell. She intends to return, of course," she says quickly to ease Enjolras's worried look. "But she is back in her room packing her belongings as we speak." 

She shoots Enjolras a pointed look. "Merci, Lady Dubois," he replies. He marks the page he'd been reading and puts his book down. "If you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be." 

Enjolras practically sprints down the halls to the maid's quarters. Many of them speak in hushed voices among themselves at the disheveled sight of him but he can't be bothered to tell them off about it. "Has she gone?" he hastily asks the nearest maid. 

"Not yet, young sir," the girl squeaks in response. "Her room's the second one down the hall, to the left." 

He thanks her before brisk walking to the room he'd been instructed. Forgetting to knock, he swings open the door and catches sight of Éponine still hunched over her luggage. (He lets out a sigh of relief.) 

"Master Enjolras," she greets him, sounding pleasantly surprised. 

"I thought I'd told you to call me—" 

"Enjolras." A small smile tugs at her lips. "Come to see me off?" 

"You didn't tell me you were going to leave," he says, sounding more accusatory than hurt. Éponine shrugs. 

"We haven't exactly been on speaking terms," she shoots back in the same tone. 

The two of them size each other up. Éponine is the one who cracks first. "My sister Azelma has come down with the flu because of the weather," she admits, not even concealing her distress. "Gavroche wrote to me about it, and I think he's coming down with the same thing as well. Joly has been so kind to take care of them—"

"Joly?" 

No matter how weary she is, Éponine manages to muster enough frustration to glare at Enjolras. 

"Yes, Enjolras. _Joly_ ," she snaps. "And do you know whose roof they've been under? Bahorel. Who, by the way, lives right next door to Grantaire." 

"Why are you telling me this?" Enjolras asks, pained. 

Exasperated, Éponine slams her luggage close and strides up to him. Though she's a head smaller than he is, she seems larger than life to him when pulled to her full height. "Because you asked," she spits. 

"I don't recall asking you anything."

"You wouldn't be here right now if you didn't want to _know_!"

"I wanted to _know_ about _you_! Not—not about—"

"The Les Amis? Your _friends_?" Éponine hisses. "Why do you hate to hear that they have lives beyond the revolution? They've come to terms with their losses and they've accepted it as part of the past. When will you? When will you be something more than your failed rebellion?" 

Enjolras stumbles backward as though she physically struck him. Almost immediately, Éponine realizes she crossed some line, too; she flinches at her own candor. She takes back none of it, though. Instead, she fixes Enjolras with a firm gaze.

"If you no longer want me in this household due to my actions," she declares slowly, with an air of finality. (Enjolras recognizes the desperation in her eyes, though. A fear that she would have nowhere else to go.) "Let Lady Dubois know so that she might write me a letter and I can stay in Paris. Until then, I have my siblings to care for. Au revoir, monsieur." 

As she moves to squeeze past Enjolras, her fingers catch his. It is a quick grip—she lets go as fast as she held him—but it sends his mind in to overdrive. It's not quite an apology. It's closer to a farewell.

He barely has the time to process it as he watches her walk down the hall without so much of another glance his way. 

Enjolras flexes his hand absentmindedly. 

* * *

**III.**   
_i took my love down to violet hill_   
_there we sat in snow_   
_all the time she was silent and still_

* * *

Éponine comes down with the same flu just as Azelma and Gavroche are healing from it.

"I strongly advise you not to return to Montpellier just yet," Joly says firmly as he places a damp handkerchief over Éponine's forehead. 

"I'm expected to be back," she replies fiercely, her ferociousness cushioned by the coughs that wrack her frame. In one corner of the room, Bahorel lets out a disbelieving snort of laughter. 

"It's more than a day's journey," Joly hisses disapprovingly.

"I'm _expected_ to be _back_!" 

"You are in no condition to travel, and that is _final_!" 

Grantaire interrupts the bickering by walking in to the room, balancing three glasses of water in his hands. "Better listen to the hypochondriac, 'Ponine," he says gruffly, passing the drinks out to everyone in the room. "It'll do you no good to bring that virus to the Enjolrases." 

Dejected, Éponine sinks further in to Grantaire's sheets. 

"Where are—" 

"Azelma and Gavroche can stay under my roof in the mean time," Bahorel pipes up. "It's no bother. I've been in and out." 

Éponine lets out a sigh of exasperation. The three boys brace themselves for her next argument until they hear a soft snore; she'd fallen asleep on them, expression still visibly dissatisfied with her plans being thwarted. 

Bahorel shakes his head and takes a sip of his water. "What a force to deal with, huh?" 

"We should send them news, don't you think?" Joly asks, glancing hesitantly at Éponine. "I suppose she's worried that she won't have a household to return to." 

The three lapse in to thoughtful silence, broken only when Grantaire starts to chuckle. 

"What's so funny?" Bahorel asks, although he's starting to crack a smile himself. 

"The statue hasn't heard from us in a while," Grantaire says good-humoredly. He crosses the room towards one of his dressers and pulls out a quill. "Imagine his shock..." 

"His _horror_ ," Bahorel chimes in.

"His joy?" Joly offers. 

A pause.

"I can write the letter," Grantaire says decisively. The two boys don't interject. "Bahroel, could you—" 

"I'll have it out by tomorrow morning." 

"And Joly—" 

"I shan't leave Éponine's side." Éponine sneezes in her sleep, and Joly takes a sudden step backwards. Grantaire gives him a sharp look. "The room, at least. I won't leave the room." 

Grantaire nods before shutting his drawer with an air of finality. "It's settled then. Bah, this whole being _responsible_ thing is such a terrible bore," he says, going on to take a large swig of his drink. "If I am going to write to our marble man, I'm going to need something a little stronger than water." 

* * *

_Julien Enjolras  
_ _Montpellier, Hérault_

_How odd it is, to refer to you by your birth given name. We've had our fun with the knowledge already, although I thought you ought to know how much joy it brought us on particularly trying days in prison. (I suppose this is a rather touchy topic to delve in to, so I shan't give you details.) Julien, like Julianus, like Julius. How pretentious. How utterly fitting._

_This is, of course, not why you have the pleasure of hearing from me. I personally wish it were under better circumstances but alas, I am today's bearer of bad news. Éponine has fallen terribly ill and cannot resume her duties in your household any time soon. She looks like death, although I'm sure she will insist otherwise. On her behalf—as she is currently incapacitated—we've decided to inform you of her condition and implore that you do not replace her. She sorely needs the position and will be utterly devastated to have to give it up._

_If you'll have me for a few more musings: Éponine divulged the conversation you two had prior to her return home. She was quite drunk, so I can't speak for the accuracy of her statements but—if what she has said is true—then I hope you know how much of an idiot you are. (I am quite drunk myself as I write this, but that's not anything new to you.) If, however, her statements are a mere product of intoxication, I still stand by my statement. You are an absolute prat, Julien Enjolras. And we are that prat's friends, awaiting his return._

_~~With love,~~ ~~Sincerely yours,~~ ~~Respectfully,~~  
\- Grantaire _

_P.S.: Not that you have ever listened to me, but do consider coming to visit ~~us~~ ~~me~~ our dear Éponine. She mumbles your name in the most restless of her sleeps. While I cannot tell you why, I presume you already have some idea. Or are you a fool in matters of the heart as well? _

* * *

"What are you _doing_ here?" 

It takes Enjolras aback, how displeased Éponine sounds. She looks almost angry at his presence, only toned down by the fact that Joly had swaddled her in a ridiculous number of blankets. 

He chooses to ignore her question by posing one of his own. "How sick are you?" he demands. 

"Sick enough to be graced by your presence. Heaven knows why." 

" _Éponine._ " 

" _Enjolras_." 

The two glare at each other, neither wanting to give way. Joly warily looks between them before settling on addressing Enjolras. "It's nice to see you," he says delicately. 

Without meaning to, Enjolras softens. "Joly," he responds delicately, carefully. "How have you been?" 

It's a loaded gun of a question but Joly is benevolent. "I've been 'Ponine's caretaker these past few days," he beams, visibly proud with his task. "She's almost healed. She should be able to start standing on her own in a few days." 

"Merde," Enjolras snaps, turning to Éponine who has turned red in embarrassment. "You can't _even_ stand, Éponine!"

"Joly is exaggerating!" she screeches. Flailing off all her duvets, she starts to struggle to get to her feet. Joly lets out a sound of protest but Enjolras holds out his hand to signal that they should wait; out of instinct, Joly follows Enjolras's lead. "I can stand on my own feet, thank you ver—" 

Enjolras makes sure to catch her before she crumples to the floor. He bears her full weight until she slumps in to his arms, visibly exhausted from having to prove a point. 

"What are you being so difficult for?" he asks in a harsh whisper. 

"I can't lose my job," she retorts. 

"Who said you would?" Enjolras says, voiced tinged with annoyance. Carefully, he lifts her up back on to the bed. Joly begins to fret—tucking her in to blankets, checking for bruises—but Éponine's eyes are only on Enjolras. 

"I'm indisposed." 

"We all are sometimes." 

"I've always taken time to... _heal_ from these things." 

"Then we will wait until you're well." 

"But Madame Enjolras—and Lady Dubois—" 

"Lady Dubois would replace half the household staff before dismissing you," Enjolras says impatiently. Despite her worries, Éponine flushes with pride. (It tugs at something inside Enjolras, to see her try to hide a smile over such a small, simple truth.) "Now, if you'd stop worrying about such trivial matters, then maybe you could let Joly do his job and you might heal faster. Be back home with me sooner." 

Éponine merely nods, but there's an unmistakable grateful gleam in her eyes. Enjolras decides he'll take it. 

"Would you be so kind to get us her medicine?" Joly asks, apprehensively addressing Enjolras. He's obviously not used to commanding the latter to something. "It should be out by the kitchen counter." 

"Of course. Give me a minute." 

When Enjolras steps out of the bedroom and swiftly closes the door behind him, he finds himself frozen in his tracks. Coming in from the front door—standing right across him—are Grantaire, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. 

The three had come in laughing and arguing over something but they, too, come to a halt at the sight of Enjolras. 

For a full, heart-stopping moment, Enjolras is convinced they despise him. There is no other explanation for the silence that stretches in to what feels like eternity, or the blank, expressionless looks on their faces as they regard him. He's not quite sure what he wants to do—try to charm his way through them, make a run for it—and he is still in the middle of deciding when Courfeyrac breaks the ice. 

"Do my eyes deceive me?" he asks pompously, the grin slowly stretching across his face. "Do you see him too, 'Ferre? Grantaire?" 

"Enjolras," Combeferre says laughingly. Surging forward, he envelops Enjolras in an embrace. If Combeferre is bothered by Enjolras's stiffness, he doesn't let on; instead, he holds his friend tightly. "We've missed you." 

"The Chief has returned to his Guide and Centre," Grantaire taunts, leaning on the door frame as Courfeyrac rushed to be part of the hug. From between the two, Enjolras looks over to meet Grantaire's eyes. He can't quite make out what's on the skeptic's expression—disappointment, or anger, or veneration—but Grantaire's next few words are clear. 

"Took you long enough, Apollo." 

* * *

News gets around quick. It takes only an hour or so for the rest of the Les Amis de l'ABC to congregate, cramming themselves in Grantaire's railroad flat. There are some exceptions—like Marius supposedly off in his marriage home with the lark and Jehan still under his parents' close watch—but, otherwise, all the schoolboys have found their way to Grantaire's upon hearing that Enjolras was in town. 

"Even Musichetta was wondering where you went," Lesgle says cheekily, pressing a bottle of pilsner in Enjolras's hands. 

"I've got to return home tonight—" Enjolras is trying to say when Feuilly interrupts him by tossing an arm over his shoulders. "The man of marble doth protest too much, methinks!" the fan-maker cries in a sing-song voice, already visibly intoxicated. 

"Methinks you are correct, Feuilly," Grantaire calls from across the room. "Do be careful where you go swinging your limbs, though! You'll be paying for anything you break!"

"We haven't heard from you in months, Enjolras. I believe you could stay a while," Bahorel says, tilting his bottle as an invitation. Powerless to the peer pressure of his friends, Enjolras follows Bahorel's lead and takes a swig of the lager.

" _Bah_! Has Montpellier made you soft, Julien?" 

"Don't call me that," Enjolras snaps sternly before downing the entire bottle. 

"Now that's the Enjolras we know!" Leslge cheers, and the rest of the group roars with laughter as another bottle is passed to Enjolras. 

There was actually a _reason_ why Enjolras refused all alcohol offered to him during their days at the Café Musain: He wasn't particularly good at holding it down. A glass of wine was often enough to knock him out already—and yet here he was, still on his feet after five bottles. He was light-headed, yes, and swaying a bit. And maybe the first few buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned; and maybe his vision was blurring at the edges, too. But he was still drinking—something he didn't think he was quite capable of.

Joly is the only one to pick up on Enjolras's inebriation. (Everyone else is simply more drunk, possibly.) 

"You may want to slow down," he warns laughingly as Enjolras stumbles in his direction. 

"Joly!" Enjolras says cheerily then winces at the loudness of his own voice. "I've been meaning to ask, Joly—since, you've been—you know, you've been—" 

"About Éponine?" Joly finishes, trying to conceal his amusement. 

"Yes! Éponine. I'm curious, of course, as her employer. As I should be. Don't you think so, Joly? Don't you think I should be concerned? I mean, I'm also here to pay you all a visit. Of course. That's why I'm extending my stay. Why I'm here." 

Unable to contain it anymore, Joly starts laughing loudly. "Why are you laughing, Joly?" Enjolras asks defensively, rocking from side to side. "What's so funny?" 

" _You_ are funny, Enjolras." Joly replies. With a shake of his head, the boy gestures towards the rest of the people in the room—all somewhat subdued and in varying degrees of intoxication, falling asleep on Grantaire's furniture. "We all know that you're back here in Paris for a reason, and it's surely not us." 

There's a pause. Enjolras stares at the bottle in his hand before asking the question that had been nagging him the whole night. 

"Do you hate me, Joly?" 

"What?" 

"That I never came back. That I'm only coming back now." Enjolras can't stop himself. All the words come pouring out. "That the revolution failed and you had to spend weeks in that prison cell—in that dirty, cramped space. And I'm sure you despised every minute of it, but I—did you—" 

"I did," Joly mumbles. He looks ashamed to admit it, but relieved, too; Enjolras feels the same, to hear a semblance of the truth. "When I wasn't having a panic attack, I was envisioning how I'd murder you for putting me through... _that._ " Joly shudders. "But then I got out. And I went to therapy for a bit. I've forgiven you, Enjolras." 

It's such a simple admission but it knocks the wind out of Enjolras nonetheless. Joly doesn't realize the gravity of it, though, as he smiles and gingerly takes Enjolras's drink from his hands. 

"Do _they_ hate me?" Enjolras presses. The alcohol in his system and the emotion in the pit of his stomach are churning, not really mixing well, but he has to know. He has to find out. "Am I—Do any of them—" He trails off, and Joly smiles kindly. 

"Of course you're inarticulate when you're drunk," Joly teases. "I quite like it. Makes you more human." 

"I have no authority to speak for them. You may want to consider unpacking this at your own time—perhaps when you haven't had so much liquor," he continues diplomatically. "I've got to go check on the others, but—as far as I'm concerned—there's only one person here who hasn't fully forgiven you." 

"Who?" 

Joly smiles sadly. "You haven't forgiven yourself, Enjolras. Maybe you ought to start there." 

* * *

Éponine is just about to fall asleep when she hears the door to the room crack open. She can smell the liquor off Enjolras from across the room; it makes her crumple her nose up in distaste as she sits up. 

She finds herself laughing disbelievingly, though, at the disheveled sight of him. "What did they do to you?" she asks amusedly as Enjolras lumbers towards the bed. He slumps at her bed side, his head narrowly missing the bed side drawer. 

"Merde!" Éponine hisses. She reaches out to pull Enjolras up to his feet. "Monsieur, you're _heavy—_ and I'm—" 

Without a word, Enjolras pushes himself up and flounders on to the bed next to Éponine. Letting out a squeak of surprise, she finds her face inches from Enjolras's. Even in the darkness, she can make out his most attractive features.

"Éponine," Enjolras whispers, the scent of spirits so overpowering that Éponine wants to retch. Instead, she swallows hard, waiting for him to say or do something more. 

Eventually, Enjolras wraps an arm around Éponine's waist and buries his face in her hair. Éponine lets out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. The position is a little compromising, to say the least, but something about it was comfortable, too; natural, almost, even though it had never happened before. 

"They have made worms' meat of me," Enjolras whines, mumbling the words in to Éponine's hair. 

She laughs softly. "And soundly, too," she says in the same hushed tone, letting herself rest her head on Enjolras's chest. "But we will avenge you." 

"Is your sickness contagious?" 

"Not anymore, no." 

"I would like to rest here for the night. Like this. If you'd permit it." 

Éponine is stunned in to a brief silence. She wants to consider all the implications, but Enjolras is so warm and soft, and she is already so sleepy. And it feels _right_ , to be in his arms. (She doesn't quite know why. It must be the delirium from her medication, she rationalizes. It must be why she would give anything to stay here, like this, for forever.)

"Éponine?" Enjolras asks again, already bracing himself to pull away. 

"I permit it." she says quickly, quietly.

She doesn't have to see his face to know that he's smiling. 

* * *

**IV.**

_so if you love me  
_ _won't you let me know?_

* * *

It's not the splitting headache the morning after that jolts Enjolras. 

It's the moment he wakes up with the sun streaming through the windows, blinding him temporarily; the moment that he tries to raise a hand to shield his eyes only to realize that there is a weight pressed against him. He looks down and sees Éponine fast asleep in his arms, and he balks. 

Luckily, she is a heavy sleeper. Enjolras twitching in surprise only makes Éponine turn in her sleep a bit and nuzzles in to Enjolras's chest, away from the heat of the sun. Enjolras is dazed by it—how endearingly serene she looks—and as he's studying her mannerisms, he finally makes sense of Grantaire's words. 

_I will not be a fool in matters of the heart as well._

Slowly and deliberately, Enjolras (rather reluctantly) peels himself free from Éponine. He lingers to watch her and almost curls back in when her eyebrows unconsciously furrow at his absence, but he knows what he has to do. 

He's halfway out the door when she says his name in her sleep. "Julien," she says, almost like a sigh. 

Enjolras looks over his shoulder to make sure that she's still asleep. And then he leaves her. 

The rest of the Les Amis are already awake from their drunken stupors. They're all packed in to Grantaire's small dining table; sharing seats, passing each other glasses of water and pieces of toast, bickering in low voices. When Enjolras walks in, they stop talking and look up at him expectantly. 

It reminds him of their days at the Café Musain. There is no pain anymore in the flash of a memory, though; it comes and goes, and he takes it as he ought to.

All eyes are on him as he assumes the empty seat at the head of the table. 

"I suppose some apologies are in order," he begins in a leveled voice, only to be interrupted by Grantaire. 

"Your days of speeches and tirades are over, Julius Caesar," the latter taunts. Even as Enjolras shoots daggers at him, he proceeds warmly. "The amnesty has been granted! What more can you offer us?" 

"Friendship."

This visibly startles the group. Enjolras shifts uncomfortably, suddenly acutely aware of how distant he'd been; how he'd kept them at an arm's distance so as to not have to grieve them, if worst comes to worst. During the revolution, they had all acted so much older than their age. So much larger than their little lives. Politics was not the only thing Enjolras worried about post-rebellion. 

He had feared not having friends to come back to. 

"If you'll have me," he adds hastily, hesitantly. Grantaire is the first to speak. 

"You are an absolute ass, Julien Enjolras." 

Then Feuilly, disbelievingly: "A dunce. The biggest I've seen." 

And Bahorel, enthusiastically: "A complete halfwit." 

Then Lesgle, laughingly: "A git! A prat!"

Joly is shushing their laughter and overlapping insults as Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a look.

"A dimwit," Combeferre says solemnly. "A loon," Courfeyrac chirps in the same tone.

"Are we quite done?" Enjolras asks dryly, although he is grinning widely because he can already feel it. He already knows. His chest is about to burst with the immense comfort that he feels, watching them throw one word after another.

"Chump!" "Goon!" "Imbecile!"

When the hysterics die down and everyone breaks off in to their own muted conversations, it's Joly who passes Enjolras an empty plate. Combeferre breaks him some bread, and Courfeyrac stands to get him some jam. 

Grantaire crosses to his side and hands him a cup of freshly brewed coffee, which he takes gratefully. 

"So the man of marble has a heart for something after all," Grantaire quips. 

For once, Enjolras smiles at him. 

* * *

"Not planning a new revolution just yet?" 

Enjolras let out a snort of laughter at Éponine's crassnes. It's a mannerism so unexpected of him that she has to glance his way; his head is turned away from her, gaze directed to something beyond their carriage.

"No, not any time soon. I wouldn't count it out, though." 

The coachman shoots them a worried glance, and it makes Éponine chuckle. 

They have five more hours until they get to Montpellier. 

Enjolras had insisted that he wait until Éponine is fully healed. _So that we might lessen the cost and the trouble of returning home,_ he'd reasoned, although Éponine secretly wondered if it was so that he might have more time to be with the Les Amis. And so it seemed, really, as he spent the past week doing anything and everything with them—exploring Paris, drinking themselves silly, debating about which school of thought mattered over the other. 

(At night, he would creep in to her room, and they would talk until day break. He would sometimes linger—like he was contemplating whether he should say something, or waiting for Éponine to ask him to stay—but neither of them crossed that line.) 

Upon leaving, Enjolras promised to return more often. The boys made plans of visiting him at his home, around summertime. _I'd trade these streets for the beaches of Mont any day,_ Grantaire had said pompously, kissing Éponine on the forehead as a farewell. 

"So that's it?" Éponine presses, unable to believe that Enjolras—for all his passion and fire—has given up on his cause. 

He turns to look at her, lips pursed in a thin line. "The fight is far from over," he replies in a hushed tone, eyes flickering over to the eavesdroping coachman. "But—right now—there are some... _matters_ I hope to attend to." 

"Such as?" 

"Finishing my education," he says, shrugging. "There is a University back home that has a fantastic law program. If they'll accept an insurgent, that is." 

"And you'll stop going on about democratic freedom." 

"I never said that." 

The two share a smile. 

"It must be nice," Éponine sighs. "To have opportunities to study, such as yours." 

Enjolras's eyebrows furrow at this. "You thought I was going without you?" he says, raising one eyebrow. At Éponine's confused expression, he shakes his head. "Mother hasn't allowed me a moment of peace since I got home. She's not letting me alone anywhere. Merde, it's like I'm a child—anyway, if I go to University, she's bound to find a way for you to enroll as well. What degree do you think you'd take?" 

It's a lot of things to process all at once. "You hadn't thought of running this by me first?" Éponine sputters. "Enjolras, I'm illiterate!"

"So we'll get you tutoring. What degree?" 

"I barely have any belongings, any clothes—" 

"Lady Dubois will handle that. Your degree?" 

"—and don't even get me started on not being able to _afford_ University—" 

"Mother has her ways. No amount is too large to keep me on a leash, I'm afraid. _Éponine_ ," Enjolras says calmly. He's smiling at her now, with an expression so gentle and adoring that Éponine can't bear to meet his eyes. "What would you like to pursue, if ever?" 

Éponine is quiet for a moment as she ponders it—a life she had never thought possible. Something robbed from her, being offered now on a silver platter. 

"Literature," she says, voice barely above a whisper. 

Enjolras nods and—unexpectedly—reaches out to grasp Éponine's hand in his. She snaps her head up to look at him. There's a flash of nervousness across his expression at her shock, and she immediately recognizes it from the days she'd obsessed over Marius. The fear of a passion not being reciprocated; of a devotion falling on deaf ears. 

But Éponine knows now what she thinks of Enjolras. 

"Literature." Éponine repeats decisively. 

She intertwines her fingers in his and his face lights up. 

"Literature," he echoes in a tone of breathless, giddy relief. She knows this sensation is fleeting—that he will probably have to revert to his stern, stoic self the moment they return home. She will have to remember her place—that of a still maid, no matter how much of a liking the master of the household takes for her—and they will steal away to late night conversations, and lazy afternoons in the garden. 

But they have five more hours until Montpellier, Éponine thinks as she leans in to his side. 

She can have him to herself until then. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is cross-posted from ffn :) i wrote the first version almost two years ago, and i wanted to rewrite a bit of it in the process! decided to cut it up in to two parts since it got kind of long lol 
> 
> chapter breaks are lyrics from coldplay's 'violet hill' <3 hope you enjoyed this little indulgence of mine!


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